Page 73 of The Woman in 3B
I successfully unlocked my front door and turned on the barely used light in the foyer so I could better see. I frowned when I realized I recognized the t-shirt that had been outside of my door. It didn’t belong to one of my neighbors; it belonged to me. The last time I’d seen the shirt, however, it had been on Anissa and we’d been kissing on her front stoop.
I shut my eyes when a fresh wave of remorse washed over me. Anissa had come over, but I’d been out with Gemma. Maybe she was only bringing back my t-shirt so I’d have no reason to reach out to her, but maybe she’d also wanted to talk.
I used the glow of my cellphone to investigate the hallway around my doorway, but nothing else had been left with the t-shirt—no note of explanation. I didn’t have any missed calls or unread text messages. I pressed the t-shirt to my nose and unabashedly inhaled. But like the absence of a note or a text, like the flight to Philadelphia that morning, Anissa was no longer there. It smelled like fabric softener. No traces of the woman who had worn it remained, no matter how deeply or how often I pressed my nose against the fabric.
+ + +
Gemma found me the next morning at our usual café table in the Detroit airport. I winced beneath the cover of my sunglasses at the ugly racket the legs of her chair made when she scooted closer to the small table. My blueberry muffin remained intact on its plate on the tabletop; I hadn’t trusted my stomach to be able to keep it down.
“Tell me you didn’t keep drinking when you got home last night,” my friend censured.
I hoped that it was only the inside sunglasses and my slightly disheveled look that gave me away. I hoped I didn’t alsosmelllike alcohol.
“I might have kept drinking,” I admitted.
“I know you know this,” Gemma qualified, “but that’s not healthy.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I know.”
I considered telling my friend about the t-shirt that Anissa had brought over to my apartment, but that I’d missed her because I’d been at the wine bar. But I didn’t want Gemma to blame herself any more than she already did. Besides, Anissa might not have even knocked. Maybe she’d dumped the shirt at my doorway and I would have never known she’d ever been there.
“You have to be in the air all day,” Gemma reminded me. “And of all days to be hungover! All we do is takeoffs and landings today.”
“Do you think the puking bingo card square can apply to myself?” I tried to joke.
I didn’t need to look at Gemma’s face to anticipate her reaction. I could practically hear the disapproval in the cadence of her breath.
“I hope you didn’t drunk dial Anissa last night.”
Amazingly, I hadn’t. I’d woken up in a slight panic that morning after I’d blacked out after a few more strong cocktails, but luckily I found no evidence on my phone of attempted calls or misguided texts that could have made my situation worse.
“I didn’t,” I told her. “But she’s not responding to any of my voicemails or texts anyway. Even if I had drunk dialed her, she never would have answered her phone.”
Anissa was too angry to pick up the phone or even to text me back. I could handle getting yelled at—at least she’d be talking to me then—but this silent treatment was killing me.
“So that’s it, then?” Gemma posed. “You’re just giving up?”
I peered, almost guiltily, over the tops of my sunglasses. “I did come up with an idea last night. But I don’t know if it’s genius or idiotic.”
The strategy had come to me in the middle of my third vodka and seltzer of the night, so it was probably ill-conceived.
“Thatisa thin line,” Gemma concurred.
I licked at my lips and leaned forward in my chair. “What if I ask Kent’s friend to find out her new flying schedule?” I started. “I could have him schedule me for that flight—either as a flight attendant or a passenger. Anissa always books two seats together, but she only sits in one. I could be in the seat right next to hers. She’llhaveto listen to my apology. She won’t be able to leave. There will be no place for her to go.”
Gemma gave me a disapproving look. “Is that really how you want to apologize? Corner the poor woman with more deceit?”
“It’s not deceit!” I protested. “It’s using my resources to my advantage.”
“Yeah, toyouradvantage,” she pointed out. “What about Anissa’s?”
I realized, reluctantly, that Gemma was right. I’d be able to get my apology out if I followed through with my plan, but how receptive would my audience be?
I felt deflated and defeated. “What do you suggest I do?”
A small frown formed on Gemma’s features. “What about baggage claim? After her flight she’ll be waiting at the carousel for her luggage. Confront her there. She’ll still be blindsided by you being there, but at least she won’t be captive at 35,000 feet.”
I shook my head. It was a smart idea—much better than my own—but it wasn’t going to work. “She doesn’t check her luggage anymore. She’s a carry-on passenger now.”
